So, tickets to the Tempest weren't exactly in hand, as I found out on Thursday afternoon when he tried to secure them to no avail. I honestly had very little interest in a night of Shakespeare so was happy to simply do dinner, if nothing else. But no, it was in his head: We were to sup, take in a show... and have cheese.

The cheese is important here, people. Remember the fromage!

Firstly, whilst I had expected to be late, which he would have been completely okay with, I arrived on time. Much to boy's chagrin as five fifteen would be closer to five thirty for him. I sipped on an aperitif until a quarter to six, when the hostess enquired as to the arrival of my partner, for the table was booked by others for half seven. Right, so he was late. No biggie. Well, it would have been less of a biggie had he left the cheese at home.

Here's the thing. Apparently Oxford houses a fabulous fromagerie, and he was hell-bent on bringing me back an assortment of stinky cheese. (Ah yes -regular, mildly-nosed cheese would never do.) Armed with Reblochon, Epoisses, and a fine brie, he arrived at the restaurant. (Cheese knife nestled in left jacket pocket.) Yes, stinky cheeses accompanied him throughout his afternoon in Oxford, whereupon he and the cheeses engaged in conversation with a Poet Laureate; they provided heady introspection on his train ride into London; and those stinky cheeses were allowed to enjoy the marvel that is the London transport system as well.

The boy went for the kiss. He was met with European cheeks. (Snootyless airkisses - Not my bare bottom.) The cheese sat to my right. Futzing through meal selection preceded a brilliantly fun dinner. We laughed, we chatted. We got on great... as friends. Upon realizing that we were already late for the theatre, and seeing that he was headed for a tube station, I suggested a cab. £9 later and we were at the Barbican ready to take on The Bull... which we were late for. I HAVE NEVER BEEN LATE TO THE THEATRE. I don't like it. I have little to say about the expletive-ridden play based on the mediaeval Irish Epic "The Cattle Raid of Cooley" except to note that the naked actor portraying the family dog is likely not what my date had in mind when there were warnings of nudity.

Let me preface this next bit by saying that the boy had me wedged under his arm the entire walk leading to the cab. I do not like this. If I wanted to be attached to someone's armpit, I would have negotiated a Siamese birth with God years ago. Those of you who love me know how very keen I am on this hand holding thing. You're even more aware of my sarcasm when it comes to such matters. There have been TWO men, in the last decade, who have managed to magically hold my hand as we walked, without my cringing. The first was simply a pretty, bouncy thing who succeeded in making me feel special, yet comfortable, with the affection. The second is something I still try hard not to make too much sense out of. So don't suffocate me as we walk down the street. When you reach for my hand and I pull away, take the hint. When I have to actually tell you "no", it makes everyone feel bad.

I say all this because it continued at the theatre. Ah yes, the attempts at back rubs, the massagings, the arms around the shoulder, the hands through the hair. I LOVE having a man play with my hair... but NOT when I'm in public, trying to enjoy a play. You've seen this hair... Playing with it is not silent business! I can't stand the sounds of hands rustling about my head when I'm trying to listen. And now you know.

Oh, and lest you fear a displaced cheese... it came with us to the theatre. Stinky cheese joined us for dinner. Stinky cheese joined us at the Barbican. I started wondering whether I was smelling cheese. Were others smelling our cheese? This was not good. His plan... moonlit cheese nibbling on the Southbank, which would be utterly romantic IN JUNE!!!! Alas, the cold winter months found the cheese was brought in hopes of perhaps, probably, hoping beyond hope, I brought him back to mine.

No, no, no, no, NO! You leave the cheese and crackers at home. If the lady, by twist of fate or dizzy squiffiness ends up back at yours, then VOILA! You are a star, and have presented a world of french nibbling options. You don't carry stinky cheeses with you throughout your date in hopes of snacking at hers. You just don't. Poor thing was simply trying to be romantic. But dinner, play, and CHEESE... slight overkill, when coupled with the touchy, squeezy, holdy nonsense and no desire on my part for a single kiss.

It was half nine and I had no desire to head to the Covent Garden Hotel for cocktails. I wanted to go home. Nine thirty on a Thursday night, and I wanted to go home? It was clear that honesty was the only way out of this. And so I told him, reiterating once again that I'm afraid there was no romance in our future. I won't go into the "What did I do wrong?" portion of the evening.

Suffice it to say, he walked me to the station, excused himself with a saddened face, and I watched as a broken boy disappeared into the night... with a bag of stinky cheese.

If you smell something funny driving under that underpass in the next few days, I'm taking bets on how far he flung the cheese.

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Ed. Note: I did actually feel the tiniest bit bad for having written about this particular date for this did prove to be the beginnings of an interesting friendship. Romantic foibles aside, we had a fabulous time chatting and laughing, and his is not a brain to be taken lightly. Alas, zero chemistry. The smart ones always have issues.

I’m still waiting for the flowers.

I mean, I never expected breakfast, and I had lunch plans anyway, but surely… flowers weren’t too much to ask for. After all, it’s not like I even asked for them. They were offered – practically promised. In light of the evening we’d just shared, a girl should expect nothing less.

Picture it ladies, you’ve got that fresh out of bed, dishevelled look that all but invites your man back into bed with you. Only you don’t have a man. This stunning dark-haired lovely standing in your doorway isn’t yours… yet. He’s tall. We like tall. The street lamp catches a definite sparkle in his mischievous, yet sincere, eyes. And when he opens his mouth to apologize, a lovely Irish lilt escapes the lips that you’re almost certain are begging to be kissed by you. Tall, dark and Dublin. Just the way I like ‘em.

Have you ever awoken at 4am from a dream of your home being broken into? I have. Still in dream state, my eyes barely open, I awoke to see ― through the French doors that lead to the private garden outside my bedroom ― two dark figures. The only other way into the garden is through my flatmate’s room, but she’s on the Isle of Wight this week. Discarding the “I’m imagining things” impulse… I stepped closer, pressing my face up against the thin sheet of glass that separated me from them. I’m all alone and there are two men breaking into my flat.

“You’re going to want to get out of my yard!” I belted, rather authoritatively.

This resulted in convincing frightened cat impressions from the two of them, as they sprung backwards, two feet in the air. Not far enough for my liking. What then ensued was the most blundering of apologies and drunken backstory. It soon became evident that these boys were but drunken visitors to the brother of girl who does indeed live one floor above me. Just as I was listening to the two bungling would-be criminals discuss roof slants and tiles amidst colourful expletives, my doorbell rang.

Enter Tall, Dark and Dublin. At my front door stood the type of man women dream of magically showing up on our doorsteps. He smiled a winning (and pleading smile).

“Please don’t call the police. My friends are idiots.”

We were in agreement. I wouldn’t call the police, but I would let this silver-tongued, crisp shirted, tasty looking boy apologize to me a little longer. After all, the more we spoke, the greater his chance of looking passed my baggy unmatching men’s pajamas and envision the physical perfection my “Hot Chihuahua” pjs enveloped. (Yes, I’m afraid it’s a definite that when a gorgeous man unexpectedly walks into your life in the middle of the night, you will be wearing your most unattractive nightie.) After clearly coveting my every curve and longing to run his hands through my silken, dark, glorious (bedhead) hair, this dark stranger would soon find himself no longer able to make excuses for his trusty sidekicks and instead turn his focus to making amends with me. Clearly he’d startled this damsel out of her (hardly needed) beauty sleep. A gentleman could do no less than make the following promise:

“I owe you breakfast. Let me take you to breakfast in the morning.”

As desperate as I’d know I’d be to see this welcome intruder in a few hours time, I knew there was no way these guys would be awake for breakfast. And if he was sober, he’d know it too.

“Flowers then. I have to get you flowers. Thank you for… being the kind of woman every man goes to bed longing for”… is what he said in my head. His actual thanks was for “being so great” or something equally lame. With that, we said our good nights.

It’s been two days now.


I’m still waiting for the flowers...